hellfiresky - Tumblr blog

hellfiresky · 1 day ago

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Glad you enjoyed it vod!!!! She reads as very cute to me idk why 😭 I just want her to be friends with the nerds (also, I think she and Fixer would make a pair of sassy and nerdy siblings idk why).

Four cherries on top

Entry for @cloneficgiftexchange | Prompt: "I can't believe you just said that."

Summary: Emerie Karr doesn’t flirt. She fills out reports, writes scientific journals, and saves lives. You, on the other hand, arm wrestle her brothers whilst tending the bar. Between bad pickup lines and awkward flirtation, maybe a quiet date at the botanical gardens doesn’t sound so hypothetical after all. Word count: 5k-ish Pairing: Emerie Karr x Bartender F!Reader (Reader is described as masc with half-shaven mullet) Warnings: Nothing. Fluff. Awkward sapphic panic. Heavy flirting. Mutual pining. Reader is a walking masc lesbian stereotype (mullet, flannel, carabiner,). Emerie is a workaholic disaster lesbian. Very soft feelings. Waxer, Boil, Sister, Kix, Echo, and Helix (oh how I love you, fanon clone Helix) cameo. HAPPY PRIDE!

Taglist: @orangez3st

“I’m just saying you’d look good with one of us,” Waxer cackled, pushing his empty glass across the bar with a wink as if he wasn’t already on his way into another blackout. “All due respect, of course.”

Slapping a towel down next to the glass, you grinned. It wasn’t the first time the clones flirted with you - or your coworkers, for that matter. Came with the territory. You worked at 79’s, the closest thing the Grand Army had to a watering hole-slash-entertainment hub, and the clones, you’d learned, were naturally flirty. Maybe it was the genetic blueprint they all shared. Maybe it was the brutal churn of war that made them hold on tight to any flash of joy. Or maybe it was just how they learnt to be regular people - loud, loyal, and embarrassingly earnest. Either way, they flirted as if it was second nature. You’d stopped being surprised ages ago.

“Hey hey,” you snatched Waxer’s glass before he could say the next worst thing. “Appreciate the enthusiasm. But too bad - Sister is taken.”

“Ugh,” Boil groaned from his slump against the counter next to Waxer, swirling the last inch of his warm beer. “Yeah. She is the hottest out of all of us.”

From a few stools down, Sister raised her glass without looking up from a conversation with a cute Pantoran woman whose pastel-pink braid swung every time she gestured wildly. “Damn right I am.”

“And also very gay,” Waxer added.

“Damn right again.”

A wave of laughter rolled through the bar, complemented by the sound of glasses clinking and the bass-heavy pulse of whatever synth track was currently on loop - remix of a remix of a remix that had been cycling for three weeks straight. Courtesy of 79’s resident droid DJ, who had exactly one skillset: take any chart-topper, add static and a warble filter, and call it a night. No one seemed to care. Or notice. But you noticed. You always noticed. You made a mental note - again - that it was time to update the damn setlist. Maybe even hire an actual DJ for once, someone who didn’t come preloaded with factory settings and a mid-tier taste in techno.

With a sigh, you poured Waxer another and slid it back across the counter. “Anyway,” you raised a brow, “don’t flirt with your bartender. I control your drinks. I can and will water them down.”

Waxer took the glass with both hands and gave you a wounded look. “You say that like you haven’t already.”

“You’re on your eighth pint and just told me - for the third time - I’d look good with one of you. I definitely have.”

“Bully.”

You smirked and turned to wipe down the counter. Nights like this came easy. The clones came and went - rotating in from missions, from the front lines, from their Coruscant base as they prepped to be shipped off again the next day. Some of them were regulars. Some were strangers. Most of them you saw more than your own roommates. And honestly? You didn’t mind.

The drinks at 79’s were subsidised - some Republic initiative to keep morale up - so they only paid half a credit for a pint instead of the standard two. It made sense. These boys fought a war no one really understood, and all they wanted at the end of the day was a cold one. You were more than happy to oblige. You liked their company. Their camaraderie. The way they took up space without trying too hard. But especially, you liked her.

She always came in that grey, standard issue uniform - or sometimes in her medic fatigues which always looked crisp and clean. Though, unlike her clone medic counterparts, she never wore the medic armour. No helmet. No nothing. Just the uniform, a stack of flimsi or a datapad under her arm, and that face - familiar like all the others, but distinct in ways you couldn’t name.

Her hair set her apart. Long, dark brown curls that were often straightened and tied up, or occasionally left loose on Zhellday nights. She’d sit alone sometimes, poring over documents in the corner booth. Other nights, she joined Sister - when the sniper from the 7th Sky Corps happened to be in town. That was when you first heard her name.

Emerie.

Sister had mentioned it offhandedly, saying she was one of the many, yet sporadic, sisters in the company of men she’d found herself surrounded by. Emerie wasn’t technically a regular, but now you knew her name. Knew her face. Knew how she always arrived late. How she never spoke much unless someone dragged her into a conversation - and even then, she stayed right at the edge, as if weighing her presence against the volume of the room. Not shy, exactly. Just... self-contained. So naturally, you had the most godawful crush imaginable.

“Aw, the nerds are here!” Sister’s booming voice cut through the room. She momentarily abandoned her date to high five the incoming troopers. You knew them. Echo and Kix from the 501st. Helix from the 212th. And... Emerie. After slapping palms with her brothers, Sister went straight for Emerie and pulled her into a hug that was tight enough to lift her off the floor. “Em! Missed you!”

You busied yourself, not trusting your face. A group of shinies with freshly painted green armour had rolled in earlier and were now shouting about ordering a beer tower. You took the job, letting your coworker handle the new arrivals. Better that way. You were feeling twitchy. You always got a little twitchy when she showed up. Which was kind of funny, really, because you’d never had any problems flirting before. You flirted with the men all the time. Flirted with Sister, sometimes even in front of her dates (which she responded to, anyway). You’d often flirted with Emerie before you fully acknowledged the crush - but now that you actually had a crush on her, everything short-circuited. You second-guessed everything. Did you look good? Did you style your stupid half-shaved mullet right? Did you smell good?

Waxer drained the last of his drink with a satisfied hum, then set the glass down gently before sliding over a tip - one of the rare clones who actually remembered. “Ey,” he said, cocking his chin towards the end of the bar. “You should actually talk to her, ya know.”

“Who?”

He gave you a look that could only be described as older-brother smug. “Ya think I don’t know you’ve been eyeing my sister? And I’m not talking about your shameless crush on Sister.”

“Pfft.” Mild annoyance grew as you puffed through closed lips. “Why’s she never in armour?”

“Not telling ya,” Waxer’s cackle returned immediately. “Yeah, Boil?” he called over his shoulder. “Boil knows too. But we ain’t telling.”

“Rude.”

“You know you can just ask her, right?” Boil rolled his eyes. “Hey sweetheart!” he hollered across the bar to your coworker, a poor soul who had just managed to take a breath between orders.

“Oh no. What now?” she sighed, one hand on her hip, the other still holding up a tray full of empty shot glasses.

Boil grinned. “Me and this fine gentleman here—” he clapped Waxer on the back, “require your skilled and radiant assistance.”

Your coworker rolled her eyes but walked towards them anyway, knowing full well what was about to happen. You watched in slow-motion horror as Boil turned back to you, winking. “Tag, you're it.”

Of course the universe conspired to dump you face to face with your crush, at your most unprepared - sweaty six hours into a double shift, reeking of alcohol, and whatever sandalwood spray one of your coworkers had under the bar.

Emerie was standing there in her usual grey uniform, sleeves neatly folded, datapad tucked under one arm, quietly eyeing the menu above the bar.

“Hey guys. Been a while,” your voice scraped the back of your throat as you rolled up your already short sleeves. “Order? Order? Order?”

“The usual for me and Helix. Pale ale,” Kix piped up, tapping a finger against the bar. He looked over his shoulder. “Echo, what do you want?”

The ARC trooper shrugged. “I’ll get a porter. Fives is coming by the way,” he added, checking the chrono built into his vambrace. “But prime knows where the hell his shebs is.”

“Late, as usual.” Kix scoffed.

You were reaching for the glasses when Kix turned again. “Em, what do you want?”

Emerie was jolted out of her reverie. She unfolded her sleeves and hugged herself as she moved closer to the bar. “Umm,” she cleared her throat. “What did Sister order?”

You paused the hose you were pressing to fill the glasses for her brothers, thumb still on the nozzle as foam fizzed dangerously close to the lip. In the mirror wall behind the bar, you caught your reflection and did a quick check out - okay, you looked good. The stupid half-shaven mullet wasn’t acting up. Your arms looked pumped. All those upper-body days were working. But then again, did Emerie - Em, even go for that? You had no idea. You’d never seen her with anyone. Never heard rumours, never caught her flirting, never clocked a lingering touch with anyone. She showed up a couple of times with a non-clone GAR officer, but it hadn’t looked like a date - more like a meeting that got relocated to a bar. For all you knew, she might’ve been allergic to affection.

Spinning back towards her, you kept your tone light as you met her eyes with a teasing smile. “Why?” you asked. “You always get the soda float. Extra cherries.”

Emerie froze in that special brand of deer-in-headlights look she wore whenever the conversation took a turn she hadn’t mapped three steps ahead. You always noticed that. Like any decent bartender, you’d made eavesdropping part of your professional skillset - and Emerie was easy to read if you knew what to look for.

“I just thought I’d try something different,” she said. “Didn’t want to be predictable.”

Before you could land a smooth comeback, Sister swooped in. “Soda float, huh?” she grinned, sliding a credit across the bar. “Didn’t know my closest sister would be so vanilla.”

“It’s not vanilla,” Emerie muttered. Facing the datapad in her hand, she raised both of her eyebrows, “It’s sparkling water that tastes like astringent caramelised sugar with hints of cinnamon and nutmeg.”

“Sure, sweetie.” Sister winked, slinging her arm over her date’s shoulders. “That caf martini was phenomenal, by the way. You’re a genius.” The sniper leaned in, lowering her voice just for you. “Take care of my little sister, yeah? And if these idiot boys make a mess - let me know. I’ll hackle them.”

Across the bar, Waxer and Boil perked up. “I know what you told her! We didn’t even do anything!”

“Yet!” Boil added with a gleeful raise of his glass.

Sister pivoted, and pointed a finger at them. “You two! Sit your asses down or I’ll make you clean the communal fresher!”

“You’re not the boss of me, Sis!” Waxer piped back.

“I’m not. But I have my way with the marshal commander, and I can be very persuasive.”

“Boo! Come oooon. We’re so drunk,” Waxer and Boil whined in unison, but they laughed it off, already slipping back into whatever nonsense conversation they were having.

In front of you, Kix gave Sister a casual two-fingers salute. “See ya, ma’am. Always a pleasure watching you yell at people.”

“I like you,” Sister gave a toothy smile. “You and Helix - keep this bunch alive and hydrated, yeah?”

“Doing our best!” Helix chimed in.

“Em—call me after. And please, for the love of Prime, stop reading reports at the bar. You look like you’re trying to audit the place.” Sister pulled Emerie into one last tight squeeze before strutting off, her date clinging to her.

You leaned your elbows onto the bar, watching Sister until she faded out in the growing crowd, before turning your attention back to the woman in front of you. “So… caf martini then?” you asked.

“How’s the alcohol content in that drink?” Emerie adjusted her glasses, and took a deep breath. “I… um. I’m not a very good drinker. Like the others.” You noticed the deep red spreading across her cheeks. It bloomed fast. That was actually very cute. You ought to keep that going, just like you did before this turned into a real crush.

“Depends,” you smirked. “How much trouble are you hoping to get into tonight?”

“I—uh—none,” she said immediately. “Zero trouble. Like, the opposite of trouble.”

You laughed under your breath. “Guess we’re sticking to your usual then.”

Her cheeks deepened a shade. She let out a soft, slightly embarrassed chuckle. “That’s so… lame.”

“Nah, you’re not lame,” you said as you poured the amber soda into a tall glass, watching it fizz to the top. Then came the scoop of vanilla ice cream, and the cherries. Four. Always four. “Reliable. Classic. Kinda endearing, actually.”

Emerie opened her mouth hesitantly before finally blurting out, “I’m… a sleepy drunk. Also, soda floats actually taste good. I don’t know how you enjoy beer. They’re bitter.”

Next to her, Kix, Echo, and Helix simply laughed at her admission.

“What do you even read at a bar, anyway?” You wiped down a ring of condensation left behind from an abandoned glass, and propped your chin on your palm.

“Reports,” she said without hesitation. “Medical documentation. Sometimes I help edit journals on the Republic’s latest health technology to aid trooper field response.”

“At a bar.”

“The office bores me.”

“Ever heard of fun?”

She sipped the float, clearly trying to avoid answering. It made you smile. Not because you were trying to be smug, but because she looked so focused on the childish drink in front of her. She didn’t even notice the way the cherry stem was poking her nose. Before she could say anything else, Kix chimed in from his stool. “Hey Em, remember that time you helped out at the field hospital on Saleucami and fell asleep with your datapad still open on your face?”

“I wasn’t asleep,” Emerie muttered. “I was resting my eyes.”

“Sure. Resting your eyes and snoring,” Helix said, chuckling into his drink. “That was textbook unconscious, Emmie.”

“I hate all of you.” She groaned.

“You love us,” Echo added as he reached over and stole a cherry off her float. “You’d be bored without us.”

You cleared your throat, gently nudging the conversation back into your hands. “Field hospital, huh? So you’re a medic like them? Definitely not an ARC like Echo - I’ve never seen you in that armour.”

“Umm…” Emerie hesitated. Her eyebrows furrowed. You could see it now - she was either one of the most sheltered clones you’d ever met, or one of the deeply overworked ones. The type of clone troopers who never touched the frontlines, but kept the whole damn war running behind the scenes. Those big brown ones didn’t get enough sleep.

She glanced over at her brothers, as if needing confirmation that it was okay to say anything at all. And that look made you huffed back a laugh because for a brief second, you wondered - were they pushing her to talk to you? Like Waxer and Boil had done to you earlier? Were you part of some brother-led matchmaking plot? Or were you just imagining it? You were probably imagining it.

…Right?

“Tell you what,” you quickly tried to break the tension before your brain ran completely off a cliff, “how about this - we trade questions. You ask one, I ask one.”

“Okay.” Emerie swallowed her drink.

You pointed at her. “Go first.”

“What’s your favourite drink that’s not on the menu?” she asked, almost too quickly.

You grinned. “Ah, so we’re starting with intel. Noted.”

“I just like knowing things.”

“Of course you do.” You let your voice stay in that easy, non-aggressive manner, as you leaned on the counter and pretended to consider. “Hmm… alcohol or non-alcohol?”

“Non.”

“Trying to keep it wholesome, huh?”

She rolled her eyes, but you caught the ghost of a smile behind her glass.

“Alright then,” you said. “It’s a cinnamon caf mocktail. Cold brew caf. Little bit of cold foam made out of nut-milk, a small bark of cinnamon, pinch of nutmeg. And one classified ingredient I refuse to name because I have to keep some kind of bar secret.”

“You just described spiced caf.”

“Nope. Mine’s sexier.”

“Rum syrup?”

“It’s a secret.”

“I mean… it sounds good,” she said quickly, adjusting her glasses.

“It is.” You paused. “I’ll make it for you one night when I’m off-duty. Just the two us.” You didn’t realise you’d said it loud enough for Kix and Helix to glance over with their eyebrows raised. Loud enough for Echo to quietly laugh into his drink like someone who’d just been handed a new piece of gossip and was already filing it away for later use.

“My turn,” you said, pointing at her. “Why the soda float?”

She looked at the drink, knitting her brows together. “Well, it’s sweet,” she answered. “And… um… I like those Outer Rim holofilms. You know, the ones where the main characters go on long planetary space trips, stop at diners, and order cherry soda with ice cream on top.” Emerie paused, fingers tracing the rim of the glass absently. “I guess I always wondered what that kind of life would be like.”

You didn’t answer right away. Because what was there to say? You’d heard the tone in her voice - soft and wistful. And it hit you all at once, Emerie didn’t just want a soda float. Like many other clones, she wanted a civilian moment. A diner booth. A laugh across a table. Something not written into the Grand Army’s rule book or constrained by the limits of a clone’s lifespan.

“Ough, you should try the zherry float at Dex’s sometime,” you alleviated the topic to ease the mood. “Dex uses zherries instead of cherries, which is richer. He ferments the zherries into syrup in-house - real tart. Mix it into a regular black soda, top it with dianoga cream, then stack more zherries on top.” You poured yourself a soda from the bar gun, popped a straw in, and took a sip. “Best paired with the Zeltros Slider,” you added. “Fatty, messy, sinful, but perfect on a sunny day when you're starving. Trust me. That combo could fix a mood faster than half the meds in Kix’s kit.”

Emerie watched you sip your soda, fingers tracing the condensation ring under her glass. From the way her shoulders drooped, you noticed that she started to relax herself. “…Is Dex’s really that good?” she asked.

“You’ve never been?” You raised a brow.

She shook her head. “Clone regimentation doesn’t exactly encourage junk food,” she said, a little sheepishly. “The closest I got was watching Kix and Jesse smuggle in fried noodles from Desi’s once after a 20-hour shift.”

“That sounds right.” You laughed.

“They made them do extra PT and extra running laps for two days afterward,” she added. “Captain Rex said, and I quote, ‘if you eat like civvies, you’ll run like civvies.’ - I think he meant marathons. Coruscanti love doing that lately.”

“Rude.”

“Correct, but rude.”

“You ever sneak anything?” You leaned your weight into the bar, resting your chin on your fist again.

Emerie looked a little scandalised. “No!”

“Not even a slider? A nugget? A single stolen fry?” You grinned.

“I—” She stopped. “Echo gave me a bite of something once. I think it was a burger.”

“A burger? Maker forbid.”

She laughed for the first time that night. Or ever since you saw her in the bar months ago. It surprised both of you.

“It was greasy and weird,” she added. “But it was… kind of amazing.”

“That’s the whole point.”

“I guess I just…” She trailed off, watching the float. “I don’t really know what to do in places like this. I was grown to patch people up. Do some medical research. Write reports. Write journals. There’s no training module for small talk over junk food.”

“That small talk over junk food,” you said, resting your cheek in your palm, “is called a date.”

“I know what a date is,” Emerie groaned, rolling her eyes laughing, and her ears were turning pink again. “Is it my turn to ask now?”

“Technically, yes.” You smirked. “Though I’ve completely lost track of time.”

Before she could say anything else, Helix leaned down next to her, holding up a half-empty glass and looking vaguely overstimulated. “Hey, Em. The rest of Torrent and Ghost Company are here. We’re heading over to the long table. You wanna come join us?”

Emerie turned her head. You followed her gaze, Kix and Echo were already gone, probably swallowed into the loud boom of laughter coming from the far side of the room, where more troopers were gathering. You saw Jesse’s obnoxious Republic cog-tattooed head bobbing through the crowd. Somewhere in the middle of the crowd, someone was distributing electric green shots.

You watched as Emerie’s body went still again as if she was running a thousand calculations behind her orange-tinted glasses. “Oh, uh…” she hummed. Her hand tightened on her glass. “I think… I think I’ll stay. I’m good here.”

“You sure?” Helix snorted.

She nodded once. “Yeah.”

“…Alright.” He gave you a little side glance as he walked off, melting into the noise. “Good.”

You looked back at Emerie. She was still holding her float, straw between her fingers, waiting for you to say something. You saw the flush creeping back onto her cheeks, and that small, helpless smile that was just beginning to stretch at the corners of her lips. “So,” you said, pushing a bowl of cherries, and casually waving off a new patron towards the other end of the bar, “what’s your next question?”

“He… uh. He wanted to order.” Emerie’s eyes darted towards the customer and back to yours.

“Jek can handle him. Right, Jek?” you called, just as the tall Twi’lek ducked back under the bar pass-through, walking in behind you.

“Already?” he groaned, still reeking faintly of pollution and cold caf. One of his lekku twitched once in protest as he dropped a half-finished cigarra in the ashtray by the sink.

“Customer,” you sang, stepping to the side and letting him slide in next to the taps.

Jek sighed as he grabbed a clean towel off the rack and started moving - shutting the fridge door with his hip as he peeled off towards the waiting trooper on the far end. “Ungrateful shinies,” he muttered. “This is why I don't date troopers.”

“Sure, Jek,” you called after him. “Tell that to the pilot who left you a massive tip and his comlink code last week.”

“That was different!”

You laughed at your tired coworker before turning your attention fully back to Emerie. Her expression had settled into one of comfort - from the look of it. She’d let herself be here now, in this strange bubble of soda floats, noise, and too many damn cherries.

“So?” your smile returned to your lips. “What’s your next question?”

She looked down at her drink for a second before peering back at you from behind her orange-tinted glasses. “What would your, um… ideal date be?” she asked, then quickly followed it with a nervous giggle. “Just… you know. Because we were talking about it.”

“Ideal date?” you echoed, resting your hands on the bar. “That’s a pretty bold move for round two.”

Emerie flushed, but barrelled ahead. “I’ve, um… I’ve read about a few. You know. In holozines. In one of those dating columns women sent for advices.”

You smirked. “Yeah?”

She nodded, sipping again. “There’s this one I remember. This lady said the guy was… he was really into his speeder bike. That was, like, his whole personality. Took the girl to a rooftop to ‘see the city lights’ but didn’t bring snacks or anything,”

“Oh no.”

“He only talked about himself. Bragged about how many fights he got into when he was in Corellia. Said she reminded him of his ex, but in a sexy way. Then he tried to get her to split the bill.”

You stared at her.

“Emerie.”

“What?” she blinked.

“Is this… your idea of an ideal date?”

She looked horrified. “No! I just—those are the only kinds I’ve read about! That, or like… weird beach dates where the guy brings a guitar and sings that song that goes—uh—‘cause maybe… you’re gonna be the one that saves me?’” She winced. “I can’t remember the full lyrics. Oddball likes to sing that.”

You dropped your face into your hands. “Oh my god.”

“I don’t know what people do!” she flailed. “I was raised in a medical wing! I didn’t get a dating module!”

You peeked up through your fingers. “Sweetheart, if a man ever tried to bring me to a beach and play Wonderwall, I’d freeze myself in carbonite.”

Emerie opened her mouth, then closed it again. “So it’s true? Dates with men are that bad?”

“Thank the Maker I’m not into men,” you widen your eyes. “I barely survived my one mandatory marketing workshop with one of those finance bros from the Financial District. I can’t imagine dating one.”

“Oh.” She ate the last cherry in her drink.

“And to answer your question, my ideal date is an entire day spent with my date. Would be nice if lunch at Dex’s is involved.” You stored some clean glasses in the pantry behind you before turning back to her. “My turn now,” you rested your chin on your hand again, eyes fixed on her as if you were studying a book you actually wanted to read. “Based on your readings and analysis… what’s your ideal date?”

“Oh. Um.” Emerie reached up and gathered her curls into a bun, she did that like she needed something to do with her hands while her brain caught up with the question. The bar around you had gotten noticeably more crowded - more clone troopers filling in from the shift change, all chatter and the familiar smell of sweat, cheap body spray, and the smell of rolled cigarra from the Underworld. The overhead unit was still blasting recycled air, but with this many bodies packed in, the cold never reached the floor. Heat gathered beneath your collarbones, making you wish to run to the fresher to change into a clean shirt.

Her eyes darted towards the entrance and back to her float. She was scanning the space like other troopers always did out of habit - calculating exits, memorising faces, tracking movement. She didn’t like crowds, Sister had mentioned it to you before. Not because she was afraid, but because they made it harder to think. You’ve also noticed that she always answered if you gave her enough room. Emerie’s thoughts didn’t come quickly. They came fully formed, and they needed time. So you refill your soda to give her the space to adjust her hair, to breathe, to get her bearings again. And sure enough, after a few seconds, she straightened, and stirred her float absentmindedly. “Okay. So… not dinner. Too formal. And not caf either—everyone does caf, it’s boring.”

“Bold stance from someone who only drinks soda floats,” you murmured.

“I like snacks,” she said, ignoring you. “Those little ones you can carry around. Pastries, skewers, crisps, those weird chewy tapioca balls with cheesy and barbecue dust you get from street stalls.”

You smiled. “So snack-based. Got it.”

“And… long walks.” She paused, then nodded to validate her own answer. “I walk a lot anyway, and it’s easier to talk when you’re moving.”

“Practical.”

“But not just random commuter walks. Somewhere nice. Like the Skydome Botanical Garden. Or the science museum in Fabosi District. The one with the interactive exhibits and the massive display on rare bacteria cultures? Have you been there?”

“I—no. Not since I was in school. For extra credit.” You stared at her.

Emerie shrugged, sipping her float again. “I like it. It’s quiet. Nobody bothers you. You can talk if you want, or simply… look at things.”

You tilted your head slightly. “That’s… actually really sweet.”

She immediately looked flustered. “It’s not meant to be sweet! It’s educational!”

“Sure it is.” You grinned, letting it hang in the air before you lowered your voice teasingly. “With whom?”

“What?”

“Who’s going with you? To the museum. For the walk. For the snack runs.”

“Nobody,” she said quickly. “It’s a hypothetical.” Emerie flushed so fast. You watched the red hue bloomed on her cheeks before it crept down her neck.

“Mmhmm.” You didn’t look away. “Sounds very specific for a hypothetical.”

“I was just answering the question!” she protested, but her eyes betrayed her as they started reading the event promo flyers on the wooden bar, and back to the menu above you, anywhere but meeting your eyes.

“With… that bearded non-clone officer who comes in with you sometimes?” you asked, knowing the absolute zero chemistry between them. “The one who is always in his grey uniform?”

“What? No.” Emerie grimaced.

You raised a brow. “No?”

“He’s not—that’s not—we work together. He comes to debrief. And complain. And eat the fried mushrooms.”

“So… not your snack-run date.”

“Maker, no.”

“Got it.” You let the silence fill the space between you, the noise of the bar slipping into the background like it had been put on mute just for this. “That’s a relief.”

She froze. “…Wait, why?”

“Because I’d hate to have competition. Especially if my competition is a man with an obnoxious beard trimmed into that awful fade.” You grinned.

That earned you a real laugh, and immediately cut off by her own embarrassment. She covered her mouth with her hand to stuff it back in, ignoring her cheeks that were already blushing again. “You’re infuriating,” she mumbled with that same warm smile.

“You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

“I’m not flustered.”

“Right,” you said, nodding towards her soda float. The straw was still bobbing in the glass from where her hands had shook. “Tell that to your drink.”

“Shut up,” she ducked her head and took a sip - using the glass to shield her from the way your eyes lingered.

“So he’s not my competition after all.” This time, it didn’t earn you that swet laughter from her. Instead, her grip tightened around the glass. You watched the tension gather in her shoulders again, yet it was not the same nervous fluster as before. “Hey,” you carefully said. “What’s going on in there?”

She glanced up at you, then back down. Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, then closed again. And finally, she let out a quiet admission. “I’ve… always kind of wanted to get to know you.”

You swallowed, surprised by how gently she said it.

“But I didn’t really know how,” she added. “I’m not like my brothers. I’m not loud. I don’t flirt. I’m also not brave and carefree like Sister. I-I didn’t know if I’d just embarrass myself.”

You leaned a little closer across the bar, “You never have.”

Emerie shook her head, strands of curls escaping the bun she’d tied earlier. “I don’t have… experience. Like that. I’ve read things, sure, but it’s not the same. And I didn’t know if you—” she hesitated. “I mean. I didn’t know if you were even into women.”

“Em.” You stared at her, raising an eyebrow. “Babe. Have you seen me?”

“I—uh…”

Gesturing vaguely to yourself, you chuckled. “The mullet. The flannel vest. The chains. The fucking carabinner. The fact that I literally arm wrestle your brothers for fun.”

She opened her mouth, failed to find a retort, and immediately looked overwhelmed.

“For the record,” you said in that teasing voice, “if I weren’t into women, I think I’d still be into you anyway.”

The clone scientist in front of you choked. A full-on, soda-down-the-wrong-pipe, slap-the-bar, panic response. One hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes went wide behind her glasses, which were now fogging at the edges from the sudden exhale.

“I—” she wheezed. “You—what—”

You bit your lip trying to hold it together.

“I can’t believe you just said that!” she blurted, eyes wild, voice high with secondhand embarrassment.

“Me neither,” you burst out laughing. “That was so bad! That was, like, top ten worst delivery I’ve ever pulled - and I once tried to flirt using a pun about caf martini. And somehow this one was worse!”

“You did not,” she groaned, looking simultaneously horrified and like she wanted to crawl under the bar before bursting into laughter herself.

“Oh, I did. And I stand by it.”

She shook her head into her hands, cheeks absolutely on fire, glasses slipping down her nose. That had to be the third time she’d laughed like that tonight - and it was loud, full-bellied, and unguarded, almost echoing the sound from the other clones across the bar. She shared their face, after all. Maybe it was about time she shared their laugh too.

“That was sooo bad,” she said again, laughing harder now. “You’re ridiculous.”

Wiping a tear from your eye, you tried to catch your breath. “Still wanna go out with me?”

Emerie froze again before quietly smiling down at her glass, “Yeah. I really do.”

“I’ll pick you up at 0900 on Benduday?”

Her head shot up like you’d handed her a live thermal detonator.

“We can walk around those places you talked about. Botanical gardens, the museum. Then lunch at Dex’s.” You reached across and gently took the now-empty float from her hands. “Zherry float and Zeltros sliders. My treat.”

She was still blinking, gears whirring inside her head.

“Refill?” you tilted the glass. “On the house.”

“Y-yeah. Yes. Please.”

Moving behind the bar, you started the float assembly again. Behind you, her voice followed in that high-pitched emergency mode. “Should I—do I need to bring anything? Like a schedule? Or a change of clothes? Or extra credits? I mean, I’ve never really—do people wear something specific for walks? Should I look casual or—like—prepared-for-outdoors casual or—”

You slid the glass back in front of her gently, the new float frothing with fresh ice cream and another four cherries stacked on top. “Em.”

She shut up instantly, eyes wide behind foggy lenses, her breath caught somewhere between a laugh and whatever new anxious thought had just tried to climb out of her throat.

“We’ve got all the time in the galaxy.” You smiled softly. The noise of the bar swelled again around you, heavy combat boots on the duracrete flooring, laughter from the back table, dirty bass from the techno remix shaking the shelves. But here, in this small corner of the bar, between sticky glasses and melting cream, everything felt still.

“That—that sounds really good. I can’t wait.” She smiled as she met your gaze. You saw the blush creeping back onto her cheeks again, soft and impossible to ignore. And this time, she didn’t look away.

#hellfiresky fic #emerie karr #emerie karr x reader

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